Page 230 of What We Bury

“Okay. Let’s run through it one last time,” I say.

Holden nods. “Entry through the service corridor. Milo disables the emergency exit alarm—you’ve got the bypass?”

“Installed it yesterday.” Milo holds up a small device. “You’ve got a thirty-second window.”

“Eli and I go into the locker room. Micah holds the corridor. Milo stays on the feed.” Holden’s voice is flat, mechanical. “Timeline?”

“Once the staff leave we’ve got as long as we need,” I say. “Noose is pre-tied and ready to go. I’ve set the anchor on the shower pipe above the cubicle we want—it’ll hold his weight, Knox confirmed the specs. Milo planted the journal in his home office last week. The suicide note is ready to put with his belongings. His browser history shows searches for methods going back six weeks.”

“The man was meticulous about his digital footprint,” Milo adds. “I had to work around three layers of encryption to plant the history. Even had to ask Fenrir for some help. That dude is fucking nuts. But, honestly, it was the most fun I’ve had on a computer since I catfished that senator.”

“Focus,” Holden says.

“Right. I’m focused. Very focused. Laser focused.”

I look at my hands. They’re steady. Thank God.

Before yesterday, they were shaking. Sage was right. Resisting her was ripping me apart. When I took her in the voyeur room, I was a fucking mess and she put me back together by letting me come apart on top of her. She met my darkness and didn’t run. She took every bit of it.

“Masks on,” I say, and all three of us pull down our skulls and pull up our hoods.

We move in formation, single file, one after another to the service entrance. The door is supposed to be alarmed but isn’t, thanks to Milo’s bypass. He triggers the device and the LED goes green. Thirty seconds. Holden pulls the door and we’re in—a narrow corridor, fluorescent-lit, smelling like industrial cleaner. The gym’s main floor is through the double doors to our left. The locker room is straight ahead.

Micah takes his position at the corridor junction, back to the wall, bag at his feet, eyes on both directions. He gives me a nod. Calm. Ready.

Holden and I move down the corridor. Our shoes are soft-soled, no sound on the tile. We push through the locker room door, the shower running on the other side. Hudson’s washing the workout off his skin, thinking about whatever men like him think about. His portfolio. His weekend plans. The intern he’s been grooming since September. The one who reminds him of the last one, who reminded him of the one before that. Theassembly line of young women he’s abused and discarded like raw material.

Once inside, we’re met by rows of metal lockers, wooden benches, a tiled floor that slopes toward the drain. The shower area is at the back, separated by a half-wall. Steam curls over the top. Hudson’s clothes are folded neatly on a bench—dress shirt, slacks, leather shoes arranged by a man who controls every detail of his environment.

Or he did, until now.

Holden nods to me, and we move silently toward the showers. The steam is thick, the water pounding against tile, masking any faint sounds we might make. Hudson’s back is to us, head bowed under the spray, soap suds sliding down his shoulders. He’s humming—some tuneless thing, oblivious.

I pull the drug-soaked rag from the sealed bag in my pocket. It’s a special blend from Loki, something that’s fast acting but won’t leave a trace in the bloodstream.

Holden positions himself just behind, ready to catch Hudson if needed. We move as one.

I clamp the rag over Hudson’s mouth and nose from behind, my other arm locking around his chest to pin his arms. He jerks, eyes flying wide, but the chemical is already doing its work. He thrashes once, twice, feet slipping on the wet tile, but Holden’s there, grabbing his legs to keep him from making noise. Hudson’s muffled shouts fade to gurgles, his body going limp in under twenty seconds. We shut off the water and drag him to the corner of the shower recess so he’s out of sight from the doorway.

He’s heavier than he looks—dead weight always is—but we get him fully hidden before the manager does his final check. The moment Milo gives us the all clear, we set the scene, ready the noose. And wait.

By the time Hudson stirs, we’ve got him balanced on a small maintenance stool—precarious, just tall enough that the tips of his toes can keep him upright. His hands immediately fly to the noose around his neck and he makes a sound—thin, desperate, ragged. Panic lands behind his eyes as he claws at the rope, but it’s already cinched. His lips are darkening. He tries to scream but it comes out a choked, bubbling rasp.

Holden and I watch him. This part always takes longer than you think it will. It’s a pleasure to watch them die.

“Please—” he gasps, but the word rips itself apart in the making, sputtering out as a guttural click. “Help me.”

“Bill Hudson, you’re a piece of shit,” I say softly.

His hands flail for purchase, but he can’t get his fingers under the rope. He’s crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks, snot bubbling from his nose. The humiliation is potent. Naked, dripping wet, no dignity left. The masks hide our faces, but he doesn’t need to see us to know what this is. The skulls tell himexactlywhat this is.

His reckoning.

“What—what the fuck is this?” His voice is strained, high, panicked, already cracking as he tries to maintain his balance. “Who are you? What do you want? Money? I can pay?—”

I stay crouched, Holden standing behind me. And we watch as he claws at the rope, twisting and gasping.

“You know who we are,” I say finally. “And you know why we’re here.”